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December 30, 2018 2 min read
Writing "Best of the Year" lists makes me feel pretentious and self-aggrandizing. That's probably because these lists operate under the pretense that the writer is able to both assess an entire year's worth of games and make some sort of absolute judgement about them all. Just picture if I stood alone on a public street yelling things like "The Missing was 2018's the most exciting surprise in gaming, unlike the Tetris Effect, which was unsurprisingly great! DO YOU HEAR ME?!? I WAS NOT SURPRISED BY THE FACT THAT I STILL LIKE TETRIS! LOOK AT ME NOW AND THINK ABOUT HOW I STILL FEEL ABOUT TETRIS!!!"
That would be a pretty annoying thing for me to do, and definitely not the best way to present myself as an ally to your "Average Joe." Yet most people's Game of the Year lists have a humble, every-man vibe to them. We all want to share our experiences with our peers, and we all hope that people will relate to our perspectives. In that way, Game of the Year lists are sort of like singing karaoke. Sure, you're putting the spotlight on yourself, but it's a spotlight that we can all relate to.
On the other hand, making a list of all the video games you appeared in that year is definitely NOT a way to endear yourself to pretty much anyone, but I'm going to do it anyway. I'm even going to point out how some, if not all, of these games probably would have been better off without me. In all the ways that your average Game of the Year list is relatable-but-self-indulgent, this one will be alienating-and-self-loathing.
I hope you enjoy it.
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